A man, a man, he calls my name. This man, he never sounds the same. He’s not the same, at all, you see. And he, the man, calls out to me. “Where are you?” A whisper calls. In the grass, a withered rose falls. A tear rolls down his cheek at night, so I whisper, “It’ll be alright.” He wipes his tear, and calls my name, reminiscing on his withered fame. His voice resounds inside my head; he’s calling me back from the dead. Although I never come to he, he never loses faith in me. I wonder, sometimes, what he thinks. Into the ground, the withered rose sinks. Decaying underneath the ground, the rose is nowhere to be found. Sometimes, he still calls my name. This man, he never sounds the same.